


Both in Concupiscence and in Disgust

by rowenablade



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale Has a Vulva (Good Omens), Aziraphale Whump (Good Omens), Bondage, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Gags, Hand Jobs, Heaven is Terrible (Good Omens), Hurt No Comfort, Intravenous Drugs, Medical Experimentation, Needles, Nipple Clamps, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Other, Sex Pollen, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:16:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27673232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rowenablade/pseuds/rowenablade
Summary: The angel holding the needle smiles and pats Aziraphale’s shoulder.“Relax,” he says. “This isn’t a punishment.”--Mix equal parts Indulgent Whump and Angsty Character Study, add several dashes of one of the author's Worst Phobias, shake well and serve in an oversized glass. Pairs great with Suspicions One May Be Losing It.
Relationships: Aziraphale (Good Omens)/Original Character(s), Aziraphale/Gabriel (Good Omens)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 64
Collections: The Repossessed Server Prompts





	Both in Concupiscence and in Disgust

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for a "intravenous sex pollen" prompt over at The Repossessed Discord server, a community dedicated to the creation and sharing of dark Good Omens fics. It's a magical place full of very nice people.
> 
> If you made it here past the tags I assume you know what you're getting into, but I'll say it again just in case: this fic contains descriptions of rape, needles and existential despair. I do write fluffier stuff from time to time and likely will again soon, but this is not one of those.

The angel holding the needle smiles and pats Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“Relax,” he says. “This isn’t a punishment.”

Aziraphale wants to inquire about the necessity of the straps, if that’s the case, but he knows better. The leather straps securing his arms and legs to the bed are there because those who answer directly to the Creator have determined they are needed. How Aziraphale feels about them is irrelevant.

Whatever is in the needle is irrelevant as well. He will be told, or he won’t be. That’s the policy in Heaven.

The attending angel, who introduced himself as Bethiel before gingerly securing Aziraphale into this spread-eagled position, slides the needle into the crease of Aziraphale’s left arm. The tubes attached to it are made of some transparent substance like nothing Aziraphale has seen on Earth, and he can see that the liquid inside is a pale, milky gold. If he squints he can see the way it moves, sluggishly, from the bag it’s contained in to his bloodstream. He suspects something this viscous would kill a human, were they to find themselves injected with it, but he is not a human. 

Whatever it is, it’s warm. He can feel the slow warmth of it traveling up his arm, creeping into his chest. 

“You’re doing fine. Gabriel promised us you would,” Bethiel says happily. It’s meant to be a compliment, but Aziraphale can hear the threat behind it. Gabriel said he would cooperate. Dare Aziraphale disturb the universe, by making a liar of the Messenger of the Lord?

“Yes, well, Gabriel knows best,” Aziraphale replies, forcing himself to smile. Whatever this is, it’s not Bethiel’s fault. The young angel is clearly nervous, brown eyes wide as he checks the placement of the needle and the tightness of the straps, tongue darting out to moisten dry lips as he checks off something on a tablet. 

“It will be about thirty minutes for the effects to manifest,” he says. “In the meantime, try not to move too much. I’ll be back to check on you soon.” He turns to leave, then stops, back rigid.

“Oh, right. Almost forgot. Stupid,” he mutters, as if he’s talking to himself. As if Aziraphale can no longer hear him. He returns to Aziraphale’s side and hovers a hand over the juncture of his legs, where the skin is pink and smooth and featureless.

“You’ll need one of these, for Phase One,” Bethiel explains, and Aziraphale feels the pulse of his human corporation being transformed. There’s no pain, but it’s deeply unpleasant all the same, a kind of mental itch as his body is changed completely independent of his wishes.

When Bethiel is done, there’s a sex organ between Aziraphale’s legs, the same kind that Adam walked about with unashamedly right up until a few days ago, when everything went horribly wrong.

Aziraphale sees it, and knows that he’s been lied to. This is a punishment. Whatever is being done to him, it’s because of what happened in the Garden.

Bethiel ducks out of the room before the words _Phase One_ really sink in, leaving Aziraphale to dwell on them alone. 

——

It seems to Aziraphale that the effects begin to manifest right away, but it isn’t easy for him to figure time in this state.

The warmth spreads all the way to his toes and fingertips, and for a few minutes Aziraphale dares to hope that the process is complete. He stares at the needle in his arm, at the tube running from it, pumping gold into his veins. He finds himself thinking of the venom of snakes, which of course reminds him of Eden, which sets his worries in motion again. 

He can see his skin flushing, blood rushing to the surface as his body temperature slowly tips over from warm to hot. There’s a bloom of it on his chest, visible through the fine golden hairs there, pulsing faintly with his heartbeat. His nipples are peaked, and the organ between his legs is rapidly turning a lurid shade of dark pink. It had been resting against his thigh, but now it’s become so suffused with blood it’s beginning to jut upwards, nudging against the soft skin of his belly. 

Aziraphale shifts his hips to try and move it out of his line of sight, regarding it like a potentially dangerous animal. Something that bites. Even his limited movements, the sheets against his back, the air against his flesh, set his skin to tingling. The heat in him takes on an urgency of a kind he’s never felt before, something between an itch and an ache. His eyes widen, and he sees the organ twitch.

Bethiel comes back into the room, and Aziraphale wishes he was able to cover himself. Only days after its debut on Earth the concept of covering one’s nakedness has come to Heaven, and Aziraphale’s heart aches at the knowledge that it will be his name going into the official records. The first angel to feel shame.

“Are you ready to begin?” Bethiel asks. Aziraphale doesn’t know how to answer that, but it turns out not to matter because Bethiel isn’t talking to him. Another angel has followed him into the room, this one with curly black hair and hard grey eyes. She doesn’t introduce herself, just consults something on a tablet before taking up a position by Aziraphale’s left ear.

“I’ll need to ask some calibrating questions first,” she tells Bethiel, then looks at Aziraphale’s face for the first time. “Please state your name and function.”

Her abrupt tone makes Aziraphale’s grasp on his words shakier than it ought to be. “Aziraphale, Principality,” he stammers. “I am…was…Guardian of the Eastern Gate of Eden. I’m not, er, so sure that’s my function anymore. I suppose that’s what we’re here to find out?”

He’s trying to make it sound like a joke, some good-natured speculation and not a fearful inquiry to his eventual fate. However it’s received, it doesn’t show on the face of the angel questioning him. Her unsmiling eyes flick back to the tablet.

“What are you feeling?”

From the way she asks, Aziraphale can tell she’s not asking about his emotional state. 

“Um…hot, I suppose. Hot and…tingly? Is that meant to be happening?” He finds it harder to speak than he anticipated; his mouth has gone quite dry.

The angel ignores his question. “How old is the universe?” she asks.

Aziraphale blinks, puzzled, but he tells her the answer as far as he knows. He has to take the veracity of this number on faith. He wasn’t there, after all. None of them were.

“For what purpose was the Earth created?”

His confusion sharpens and he cranes his head to look around the room. Bethiel is at a table off to the side, his back to Aziraphale. The interrogator taps her stylus impatiently.

Gut twisting, Aziraphale gives the only answer he can. “I don’t know. I- I don’t presume to know the will of our Creator.”

There is a tiny twitch of her lips that might signal approval. She writes something down, nods and addresses Bethiel. “Control questions confirmed four out of four. We’ll begin Phase One now.”

Bethiel is now wearing gloves and an uneasy expression. He holds a bottle of something in his hand. Aziraphale’s heart hammers in his chest as Bethiel pours a small amount of liquid into his palm and rubs his hands together, ratchets up in tempo when the young angel delicately wraps his hand around Aziraphale’s organ. He squeezes slowly, as if afraid of breaking it.

Aziraphale gasps. He can’t help it. The heat and that other, stranger sensation are most concentrated in that particular area, and when Bethiel squeezes him all the nerves in his body snap to attention. It doesn’t hurt, yet it brings with it the urgency of pain, the demand that something must crest or break lest the body begin to fall apart.

“Principality Aziraphale, it’s important you answer the questions.”

He hadn’t even realized the interrogator had spoken again. 

“I’m sorry,” he manages. “Could you repeat that?” He wonders if something is wrong, if there’s some test here that he’s already failed.

“I asked, ‘Which is a larger animal: an ant or a bird?’”

“A…bird?” Aziraphale hazards. “I’m sorry, I don’t understaaaa-“

His words are snapped off in his throat as Bethiel begins to stroke him slowly up and down. The wet slide of the glove and the oil, the warmth and pressure of Bethiel’s hand beneath, slice through Aziraphale’s consciousness and make everything go white.

When he can open his eyes again, the interrogator is frowning. Bethiel’s hand continues to move at an achingly deliberate pace.

“What is four subtracted from seven?”

“Th-three,” Aziraphale whimpers. “Please, can’t you tell me what this is about?”

“That’s not information you need at this stage. Who is Lucifer?”

That name comes as such a shock that Aziraphale forgets about the sensations below his waist for a second. “I’m sorry?”

“Is that your answer?”

“No!” Aziraphale looks frantically between her and Bethiel. The latter is staring off into the middle distance, distaste and impatience mingling on his handsome face. He doesn’t bother looking at Aziraphale, or at what his own hand is doing. 

“Answer the question, Principality.”

He tries to pull himself away from Bethiel, a vain attempt to get the sensations to ease. Bethiel adjusts to a firmer grip and pays him no mind.

“Lucifer,” Aziraphale answers through gritted teeth. “Former commander of the Heavenly Host. Called Lightbringer. Cast out for rebelling against the Creator, now the self-styled King of Hell.”

The interrogator pauses to write something down. Aziraphale tries to catch Bethiel’s eyes.

“Please, is it…is it meant to feel like this? I feel…ill.” It’s not the right word, but Aziraphale does not know any other that applies. It’s becoming difficult to remember any words at all.

“Which is the better animal: an ant or a bird?”

For a second Aziraphale thinks a question has been repeated, then catches the answer before it leaves his mouth as the word _better_ sinks in. “All creatures are equally beloved in the Creator’s eyes,” he says instead.

“Hmm. How many types of snakes are there in the world?”

Snakes? Why is she talking about snakes? Does the one currently biting him, fangs sunk into the crease of his elbow, count toward the official tally?

“Thousands,” he offers, with no idea if it’s correct. 

The interrogator nods at Bethiel. “That’s enough for now.”

Aziraphale is released. Bethiel stands up and strips off his soiled gloves. As he struggles to catch his breath, Aziraphale sees his organ, now an obscene reddish-purple, bob up accusingly against his stomach. His skin is on fire.

“Is it over?” he pleads. “Can I…can I go now?”

“Heaven is grateful for your cooperation, Principality,” the interrogator replies. “We’ll be back in thirty minutes.”

They leave. Aziraphale squirms against his restraints and tries not to count the seconds as they crawl by.

——

They come back a trio, the interrogator plus two other angels Aziraphale does not recognize, all wearing identical grim expressions.

By now Aziraphale’s erection has begun throbbing in time with his increasingly frantic heartbeat. Desperate for relief, he’s struggled at the restraints, not even sure what he would do if he managed to break free. Remove the needle, he supposes, but what would be the consequences of such an action? This is what they’ve done to him for trying to do his job as best he could; what horrors would deliberate disobedience bring down on him?

Of course, he knows the answer to that one. He’s seen what happens to those who forget the chain of command.

The new angels pull on gloves and take stations on either side of him while the interrogator returns to her spot by his head. Her questions continue to range from the nonsensical to the chillingly pointed, and Aziraphale answers them as best he can between gasps and moans and the occasional breathless sob.

The angel on his left begins to stroke him at a faster, less deliberate pace than Bethiel, although her eyes hold the same bored expression. The one on his right takes Aziraphale’s nipple between two gloved fingers and twists experimentally. 

“Does that hurt?”

“Yuh…yes,” Aziraphale says, because he doesn’t know how to describe how it actually feels, and he still hopes if he tells them it hurts they will stop.

The interrogator nods to the angel on his right, who gets up to retrieve something. Aziraphale sees something metal in his hand and shrinks away, prompting a stern instruction to hold still.

The metal objects resemble the pincers of some kind of insect, and when the angel attaches them to Aziraphale’s nipples they bite into the tender skin and hold. There’s pain, but there’s a sort of giddy, plunging sensation behind it that is much more present.

“Please,” he moans. “Please, I-“

The angel stroking him squeezes harder. Aziraphale bites back a scream.

“What word would you say best describes your love for our Creator?”

Aziraphale cringes, tries to curl up on himself despite the straps keeping him on his back. It seems wrong to think of such things in this state. To contemplate the purity of Her love in the presence of something that feels so…unclean.

“I can’t,” he whimpers.

“Is that your answer?”

They are all frowning at him, waiting intently for him to confirm it. It’s obvious how such an answer will be taken.

“No,” he says. “No, I…I need a minute, could you please stop?”

“That is not the purpose of this experiment. Answer the question. What word would you say best describes your love for our Creator?”

“Total,” Aziraphale offers, because it’s still true. He loves everything She has ever created. He loves the way he’s suffering, if seeing it pleases Her.

“What word would you say best describes _our Creator’s_ love for _us?_ ”

Something is building in Aziraphale, something that connects a white-hot thread from his groin to the fiery pain points on his chest, something that makes his hips buck up against his will and his eyes flutter.

“Merciful,” he gasps, not because he thinks it’s the best answer but because it’s the one he most needs to be true.

For the first time, the interrogator smiles. Just a smirk, and gone from her face as quickly as it appears.

“Stop,” she orders her associates, and they immediately withdraw. Aziraphale is left panting, twitching, jerking his hips up at nothing.

“Please,” he says again. “Please, it’s too much, I’m sorry-“

“You’re doing very well,” the interrogator tells him. The three of them leave. The needle stays in Aziraphale’s arm, the clamps stay on his nipples and the endless chorus of _why, why, why_ stays echoing in his head.

——

The next time someone comes into the room Aziraphale is openly weeping. He can’t see the new arrival through the haze of tears and assumes it’s the interrogator, begins babbling as soon as they come through the door.

“Please, make it stop, I’m sorry, I answered all your questions, whatever I did I won’t do it again-“

“Aziraphale,” a new voice says coolly. “Calm down. You’re not being punished.”

Gabriel. Aziraphale forces himself to hold still as the Archangel’s face swims into focus.

“It hurts,” he sniffles miserably.

“I’m sorry about that,” Gabriel replies, but he’s smiling when he says it. “I thought after the Eden fiasco you’d be eager to prove yourself again. Was I wrong?”

“No,” Aziraphale says. You never tell Gabriel he’s wrong. “No, I just…if you could tell me why this is happening, maybe I could do better…”

Gabriel sighs. “Well, it’s pretty simple. Sin has been introduced into the world now. Lust will play a major factor in how future humans conduct themselves. We need to know the effects, if we’re to guide them properly.”

“Lust.” Aziraphale glances at the golden sludge still being pumped into his veins. “So this is…”

“Call it a distillation,” Gabriel explains, perking up at the chance to demonstrate he knows more than Aziraphale about something. “Something those nuts in Chemical Interactions came up with. Don’t worry, it’s perfectly safe.” He pats Aziraphale’s shoulder and beams down at him, ignoring the way even that small touch makes Aziraphale shiver with need.

“And the questions?”

“Developed by the Soul Searching Department.”

“Is there a reason they’re so…unusual?”

A small crease appears between Gabriel’s eyebrows. His expression darkens.

“Just answer them, Aziraphale.” The hand on his shoulder seems heavier.

“Of course,” Aziraphale replies hurriedly. “Of course I will. I just-“

He doesn’t get to finish. The interrogator and Bethiel come back in, and Gabriel steps aside.

“I’ll stay and watch this session, if you don’t mind,” he tells them. By his tone it’s clear that whether they mind or not doesn’t interest him in the slightest. Aziraphale balks inwardly at the idea of his direct supervisor watching whatever is happening to him, but of course he doesn’t dare say anything.

Bethiel tugs at one of the clamps, sending an electric bolt of pain down to Aziraphale’s fingers. “Should we leave these on?”

The interrogator looks at Gabriel, who seems to ponder this a moment, then nods.

Aziraphale closes his eyes, tries to hide his face against his bicep, waiting for the dreaded-yet-craved feeling of a gloved hand on his organ to begin again. 

What he feels instead is entirely different, and makes his eyes spring open.

Bethiel is straddling him, his robes falling over Aziraphale’s hips. Aziraphale feels the press of something wet around his organ, the heat and pressure overwhelming and yet not nearly enough. He reflexively arches up into the sensation, and Bethiel winces.

“Keep going,” Gabriel orders. Bethiel sets his jaw and sinks down a little farther. Aziraphale’s shaky exhale turns into a groan as he slips farther up inside.

By the time Bethiel has fully settled his weight on Aziraphale, their foreheads are both dewed with sweat. The interrogator keeps quiet until Bethiel gets his bearings, bracing his hands on Aziraphale’s waist and rocking hesitantly back and forth. “Like this?” he asks, looking over his shoulder at Gabriel.

Gabriel hasn’t moved from his spot in the corner, hasn’t adjusted his stance, hasn’t taken his eyes off Aziraphale. “Yes,” he says. “Just like that.”

Bethiel begins to move. The wet-velvet drag of him over Aziraphale’s need-sore flesh is dizzying. He cries out, “Yes,” to the interrogator’s next question even though he doesn’t hear a word of it. 

“Who do you love?” she demands.

It’s not a hard question, but it takes Aziraphale several breaths to answer. “Everyone,” he finally manages.

“Even Bethiel?”

Aziraphale looks up. Bethiel’s eyes are fixed on a point somewhere above Aziraphale’s head. 

“Yes.”

“Even me?”

“ _Yes_.” Aziraphale looks, panicked, between the three of them. “Please, something’s happening to me. I don’t…I don’t understand…”

“Do you love our Creator?”

“Of course I do,” Aziraphale sobs. He does. He loves Her, he _trusts_ Her, and whatever is happening must be for the greater good or She wouldn’t permit it, he _knows_ that.

It’s Her love he’s thinking of when the sensation in his groin rises and ripples and spills over. Her love, and how afraid he is to lose it.

He keens and thrusts his hips up into Bethiel’s heat as his vision goes white. 

For a moment he’s suspended in some blissful haze, and then everything crashes back in at once. His wrists are sore from struggling against the straps. His legs shake. Bethiel is climbing off of him, the interrogator holding his elbow to offer support. Gabriel is still in the corner, smile faint on his lips.

“Great job, everyone,” Gabriel says. “I think we’ve learned a lot.”

Aziraphale looks down at himself. There’s some kind of wetness left behind from where he and Bethiel were joined, the smell of it sharp and unnatural in this sterile room. Bethiel is vigorously rubbing a towel between his own legs, scowling at the wall as he tries to keep himself covered in front of Gabriel.

The interrogator leans over Aziraphale and carefully removes one of the clamps from his nipple. When it comes off, the pain of the blood rushing back into the abused nerves snaps Aziraphale’s head back against the pillow. His back arches and he wrenches his arms against the restraints, but he doesn’t scream. He’s a soldier, a holy warrior, and it is beneath him to scream in pain.

Then she removes the other clamp.

When Aziraphale regains awareness of the room, Gabriel is wincing and rubbing his temples.

“Well,” he says. “I hope Phase Two will be quieter.”

Aziraphale wants to ask about Phase Two, but he can’t talk. He can barely move. Now that the pleasure has faded that all-consuming need is back, even worse this time, and the very sensation of his blood moving in his veins is maddening.

At last, there’s mercy when the interrogator removes the needle.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale whispers. “Thank you, thank you.”

A cup is being pressed to his lips. Aziraphale drinks something cold and sweet that drips down into his stomach and flows into his arms and legs. His restraints are loosened, and he’s allowed to roll onto his side, curl up into a tight ball as a soft blanket is draped over him.

“Thank you,” he says again, knowing that he’s done well, that he’s now being rewarded for his good work. Whatever Phase Two is, he can handle with grace, now that the order of things has been set right.

He’s allowed to drift in that sense of security for an unknowable amount of time, every second of it precious. 

It doesn’t last.

——

He surfaces to the feeling of hands on him, pulling his arms above his head. The hands are gentle, and for a bare few seconds he can let himself believe their only purpose is to soothe him. Then he feels leather encircling his wrists once more, and his stomach plunges.

“No,” he says, before he can begin to struggle, before he gets his eyes open. “No more, please, I can’t.”

Standing around the bed are Gabriel and the two angels who are in the process of strapping Aziraphale down. He doesn’t recognize them. They’re burlier than the angels who have been in and out already, tanned muscles bulging beneath their robes. Their faces are expressionless as they move about their tasks.

“Gabriel,” he tries again. “I did what you told me to. You said I did well.”

“You did,” Gabriel answers curtly. “Which is why we’ll be moving on to Phase Two. If you’d failed, we wouldn’t be. And you’re not a failure, are you?”

It’s a challenge, as much as it is a question. One that Gabriel knows no member of the Heavenly Host would dare accept, not these days.

“No,” Aziraphale says. It’s an answer, but it’s also a reaction, because one of the big angels is coming toward him with the needle again. “Wait, wait, please, can we- can we just-“

He’s stuttering, almost hiccuping with terror. The angel holding the needle looks to Gabriel for confirmation, who rolls his eyes.

“Look, Aziraphale, if you want to do it without the needle, we can. But I’d really think about that if I were you, because from what I’ve been told what’s going to happen next is going to hurt a _lot_ without some chemical assistance.”

“What- what-“

“You’re wasting everyone’s time, Aziraphale. Choose, right now. Are you going to cooperate, or are you going to be difficult?”

Gabriel’s expression is teetering right on the edge of angry. Aziraphale has seen Gabriel in a lot of moods, ranging from ebullient to sullen to calculating, but the last time he saw Gabriel angry, he was tearing the wings off of one of Lucifer’s rebels with his bare hands. The idea of him angry here, in this tiny room, with Aziraphale naked and bound at his mercy, is unthinkable.

“I’ll cooperate,” Aziraphale whispers. “I’m…I’m sorry.”

His apology is dismissed with a wave of Gabriel’s hand. The attending angel slips the needle back into Aziraphale’s bruised vein, the golden liquid oozing forth once more. That warmth spreads through him again, and now that Aziraphale knows what it’s leading to he can’t help but feel sickened by it. Again, he thinks of snakebites, and of innocence that cannot be regained.

Gabriel is standing between his spread legs, holding a hand over his genitals. Aziraphale’s heart lurches with apprehension that the Archangel is going to touch him there, but he doesn’t. The air beneath his hand shimmers and Aziraphale feels his flesh change against his will again. The organ softens, draws inward, curves and frills, and when Gabriel is finished Aziraphale cannot see the result, but his guess is he’s been given what Eve has. He’d never gotten a good look at that one, but it stands to reason that’s what has happened. Gabriel is, among other things, thorough.

Aziraphale squirms as his newly-rearranged nerve endings begin to respond to the drug. He’s soft down there, now, soft and almost painfully sensitive. He feels wetness slicking the entrance and remembers how this particular feature is supposed to work. Something’s meant to go _inside_ him. He suddenly, desperately wishes to close his legs, struggles against the bonds holding his ankles and earns a disapproving tut from Gabriel.

“At this stage,” he explains, “physical contact in the area should yield a pleasurable response. Can you describe how this feels?”

He pushes two gloved fingers against Aziraphale’s folds, stroking up and down slowly. Even though he doesn’t push them inside, the touch is still shocking enough to send a spasm through the bound angel’s body.

“I…I don’t know,” he gasps.

“Does it hurt?”

Biting his lip, Aziraphale shakes his head. It doesn’t hurt. It’s horribly intimate, frightening in the depths of sensation which Aziraphale realizes this part is capable of feeling, but there’s no pain, and he knows that’s what Gabriel wants to hear.

“Good.” Gabriel strips off his glove and checks something off on the tablet in his other hand. “We’ll move on to basic testing, then. Puriel, I’d like you to go first.”

One of the angels who strapped Aziraphale down now takes Gabriel’s spot between his legs and lets his robe fall open. His expression is blank, rendered terrifying by the engorged member beneath the robes. He grabs Aziraphale’s hips and drags him to the edge of the bed, until his knees are bent and he’s left hopelessly exposed. He looks at Gabriel.

“So I just, uh, push it in?”

“Mm-hmm.” Gabriel seems barely interested, still consulting his tablet. “Just begin whenever you’re ready, and follow any instructions I give you.”

Puriel obeys, taking himself in hand and clumsily probing at Aziraphale’s entrance until he slips inside. Aziraphale wails- he can’t help it- and Gabriel lets out an exasperated huff and clamps his hand over Aziraphale’s mouth.

“Hold still,” he snaps. “Puriel, you’ll want to thrust it in and out, kind of like- yes. Like that, perfect. Aziraphale, eyes on me.”

Aziraphale obeys, looking up the length of Gabriel’s arm to the shadows on his face. It only makes the feeling of being forced open more overwhelming. There’s no pain, but still the scrape of Puriel’s flesh against his own makes him want to curl up into a ball and sob. He clenches every muscle in his body, trying to offset the feeling, and Puriel gives a sharp grunt.

“Do your best not to interfere, Aziraphale,” Gabriel orders. “Just try to relax.”

There’s nothing about this that makes it possible to relax. Puriel’s body rocking against his offers just enough stimulation to keep him teetering on the edge of pleasure while not allowing him to build to any sort of release. He tries to keep his moans and whimpers to a minimum, knowing how much they irritate Gabriel, but staying both still and silent proves too much of a challenge. Gabriel leaves his hand where it is and instructs Aziraphale to open his eyes again whenever they slip shut.

At some point Puriel stops. He has hardly made a sound for the entire time and Aziraphale can’t tell what signal he’s obeying, if there was one. He pulls abruptly out of Aziraphale and does his robes up again. Gabriel nods at him, thanks him for his participation, and tells him to report to his office tomorrow for debriefing.

The other angel steps up where Puriel had been.

Raising his head, Aziraphale can see other figures outside the room, lined up in the hallway. There’s no mingling, no whispers of conversation. They just stand silently and wait.

Gabriel removes his hand from Aziraphale’s mouth. “I’m going to gag you now,” he says. “The noises are too distracting. If you start to feel pain, hold up the first two fingers on your right hand, and I’ll increase the dosage.” He nods at the needle in Aziraphale’s arm. “Understand?”

Aziraphale nods, vision going blurry with frustrated tears. He feels cloth between his teeth and is grateful for it. Having something to bite down on helps, as do the tears in his eyes, making it all the harder to see Gabriel’s empty, cold expression as the next angel takes him, and the next, and the next.

At some point Gabriel starts giving the angels more particular instructions. He tells one of them to look Aziraphale in the eye, to tell him he loves him as he pumps mechanically into him. One of them is given a prayer to recite, the Creator’s name settling on Aziraphale’s chest like a stone. One of them is told, “Pull out and finish on his stomach.” Aziraphale doesn’t know what that means until it happens, and he barely has time to be shocked by it before Gabriel cleans up the mess with a snap of his fingers and beckons the next angel to the bed.

Through it all Aziraphale’s nerves pulse and throb, begging for something he still doesn’t have the words to ask for.

He’s snapped out of his haze when he hears Gabriel say, “Slap his face.”

The angel inside him draws back her arm and obeys without hesitation, cracking Aziraphale across the cheekbone and looking up at Gabriel for approval. Gabriel tells her to do it again and she does, across the other cheek this time. She’s instructed to kiss him on both cheeks afterward, and does it with the same enthusiasm with which she administered the slaps.

Each time it ends, Gabriel thanks them for their participation, and tells them to report to his office tomorrow for debriefing. There’s enough of them that Aziraphale distantly wonders how the Archangel plans to see them all in one day.

A few more participants are instructed to slap him or pinch him or pull his hair. One bites him on the shoulder so hard he shrieks, and once again Gabriel vanishes the evidence with a wave of his hand. Aziraphale aches between his legs now despite the drug, but he doesn’t hold up his fingers because he knows all that will do is prolong this experiment, and the only thing he wants now is to have it over with. 

When the last participant leaves and no one steps up to take their place, Aziraphale lets his shaking arms and legs relax just a bit, but Gabriel doesn’t untie him. When Aziraphale twists his neck around to see the Archangel, he is putting a on a fresh pair of gloves.

“Just one last part,” he says. “You’re doing very well.” It doesn’t sound like he’s even trying to be reassuring anymore.

Returning to Aziraphale’s side, Gabriel puts one hand on his chest, over where his human-ish heart is still laboriously processing the liquid lust flowing through it. The other hand goes to Aziraphale’s sex, stroking in that same way he did before, massaging at a spot just above where he’s used and tender. 

“You can close your eyes,” Gabriel tells him. “If you want. It’s recommended at this stage that you focus on a mental image you find calming.”

None of the mental images that come to him are calming in the least. Even gloved, Gabriel’s fingers are too rough, slipping against his sensitive nerves in a way that causes white-gold sunbursts behind Aziraphale’s eyes every time they catch. Yet still the need persists. The only thing Aziraphale can think of that would be worse than Gabriel continuing to touch him this way is if he should stop, leave him in this desperate state alone.

_Is this how humans feel all the time, now?_ he wonders. _Is this what the apple did to them?_

He can’t imagine so. There was greed and urgency to Adam and Eve’s couplings, in those days after, but they seemed happy. They were still capable of gentleness. Aziraphale had glimpsed moments of it, through the trees, his wings bearing him through Eden’s sun-warmed skies.

Gabriel is not gentle. The movement of his fingers is quick and impatient. He’s looking at Aziraphale with expectancy, so Aziraphale closes his eyes and tries to do as he’s instructed. The only thought that can possibly calm him now is one of obedience, so he latches onto that notion and holds on as tight as he can. 

_I did as I was told. Always, I have done as I’ve been told._

The warm, melting feeling delivered by the needle drips through him and pools at the juncture between his legs. He can feel something building there, feels his heartbeat quicken in time with it. Above him, Gabriel makes a small noise of approval.

_I’m doing very well. They told me, they all told me that._

Perhaps this is meant as a reward, this part. For all that he’s still bound, he has no desire to struggle now. Nor should he. He’s in the service of Heaven, and has nothing to be afraid of.

The gold light behind his eyes grows softer, brighter.

_I am God’s loyal servant._

He’s swimming in gold, borne on gently rolling waves of it.

_And no one needs to know I gave away the flaming sword._

That thought, unbidden, rocks him, capsizes him, leaves him grasping blindly among the waves. He moans with fear, but it sounds similar enough to arousal that Gabriel pays it no mind, and keeps the movements of his fingers steady, and tells Aziraphale he’s doing fine, just fine, just relax.

When Aziraphale reaches his peak, he’s thinking about the fact that he has a secret. Pleasure and terror overtake him in the same moment. His writhes beneath Gabriel’s hands and wonders if the hearts of imperfect angels beat differently, wonders if Gabriel will be able to feel it if they do.

“There we go. All done.”

Gabriel’s voice is distant. Aziraphale hears a heavy sigh, hears the scratch of a stylus against a tablet. The leather straps around his wrists and ankles are loosened, leaving his sore muscles to twitch uselessly against the sheets. The gag, now soaked, is pried gently from his mouth. Aziraphale is grateful for these developments, but he does not allow himself to hope it may be over until the needle is removed.

It is. A few stray drops fall from the needle and spatter against Aziraphale’s skin. Gabriel braces a hand against Aziraphale’s back, guides him to sit up, pulls a blanket around his shoulders. 

Aziraphale looks at his hands, and doesn’t ask if he has failed. If he has, he will know soon enough.

He hears voices. Bethiel and the interrogator are back, clustered in a circle with Gabriel, comparing notes. Bethiel sees Aziraphale watching them and says something to the other two, then they all turn to look.

“Sorry. Um…may I…that is, is my presence still required?”

They seem to all consider it together, then Gabriel shakes his head. “No, Aziraphale, we’ve got it from here. I know, why don’t you go back to the Garden and wait for me there? I’ll summon you when it’s time for your debriefing.”

Aziraphale feels hollowed-out, his voice echoing in his own head. “The Garden’s empty now.”

“Mostly empty,” Gabriel corrects him. “We’re in the middle of redistributing the materials. In the meantime, I thought I saw some of Hell’s agents sniffing around the borders. How about you take your sword and patrol until we need you?”

Aziraphale looks at them, their flushed, harried faces, and for a horrible moment suspects that none of them, deep down, have any idea why any of this has happened.

He shoves that thought away as fast as he can. There is a Plan. There has always been a Plan.

Aziraphale climbs shakily to his feet, and accepts the robes that have been summoned for him. He assures them that he knows exactly where he has hidden the sword, and he’ll be sure to monitor the borders closely for any infernal activity.

He leaves Heaven, to retrieve a weapon he no longer possesses, to protect a haven that is no longer home for anyone, against an enemy he will never again fear more than his own kind.

As he wheels down from the sky toward the last few smudges of green amongst a wasteland, he searches hopefully for a figure dressed in black.


End file.
